Change You Like A Remix
by ficlicious
Summary: Bucky'd probably still have signed his soul away to the gods of spandex and paperwork, but a heads up woulda been nice before he nodded and smiled and took up residence in the house sanity fled when the Avengers moved in. Soulmates, misunderstandings, snark, genderswap and sleep-deprived Avengers abound. Tony's a woman. Must be Friday. [WinterIron Spring Fling 2016]


_Originally published on Archive of Our Own, (May 31 2016)_

 _Title from the lyrics of Fall Out Boy's, "The Phoenix"_

 _Written for the 2016 WinterIron Spring Fling. Please enjoy. :)_

 _Kudos to my beta, silvershadowkit, who was very patient with me during this process, especially since some of it was so eleventh hour._

 _Explicit content._

 _ **oOoOoOo**_

No one ever said Avenging would be easy, but Bucky could have really used a memo about the weeks where the hits just didn't stop coming. He'd probably still have signed his soul away to the gods of spandex and paperwork, but a heads up woulda been nice before he nodded and smiled and took up residence in the house sanity fled when the Avengers moved in.

Tony's already asleep under the covers by the time Bucky hauls his ass out of the shower, toweling his hair dry and shuffling towards the bed with the speed and agility of someone who actually lived all one hundred years of his life. He's not sure if it's his own exhaustion, or Tony's leaking through their soulbond, or a mix of both. When the bond formed, it had been the best thing that ever happened, but this week, Bucky'd happily trade it in for a full night's sleep. It's been weeks since they've had more than a few minutes alone together, and he misses the rush of feeling Tony's pleasure. He considers for half a minute waking Tony up for some quality time, but the thought alone is draining. All he really has the energy for is to collapse face-first into bed, snag Tony around the waist and tug him snugly in before he's out cold.

The Assemble call goes off three hours later.

Natasha is the only one who looks remotely put together as the team drags itself onto the quinjet, but Bucky's fairly sure she's a vampire who feeds off misery and frustration, so she doesn't remotely count as human. She hands disposable coffee cups to each Avenger as they stomp past her, taking the assorted grumbles and groans and whatever language it is that Clint is muttering in dire tones under his breath with a stone face and a raised eyebrow, then turns that same face on Bucky as she holds out a steaming cup to him.

" _Spasibo_ ," he mutters, all but snatching it out of her hand.

She blinks. " _Pozhaluysta_." And turns to pick up the extra-large cup off the table, holding it out as Tony comes trudging towards the ramp, footfalls particularly thunderous in the armor.

For a few minutes, the only sound over the mechanical whine of the engines is the slurping of coffee. No one wants to look at each other, and every single eye has dark shadows beneath it. Bruce is already half-green, the violent glare of the chronically under-rested gleaming in his eyes.

"Monday was giant fucking rats," Clint says suddenly. "From the sewers."

"Tuesday was giant crabs crawling out of the harbor," Steve says after a beat, then drains his coffee in a long swallow.

"Wednesday," Tony says, voice pitched up a couple of notes the way he gets when he's extra loopy, "was giant robots which, I am _thrilled_ to announce, were not my creations."

"Thursday," Bucky finds himself saying, "was Loki."

"Who is a giant douche," Clint cuts in snidely.

"And yesterday," Bruce growls into his cup, "was a double feature of giant ants and Giant-Man."

"I'm starting to notice a theme," Tony mutters, slurping his coffee. He mumbles something that Bucky thinks might be _fucking Hank Pym_ into the lid of his cup, but Bucky lets it pass.

Silence falls again, but only lasts for a few seconds until Steve breaks it by saying, "I'll lay ten dollars on it being a giant squid today. We're due for another aquatic-themed threat."

"I will place currency on jotun from Muspelheim or Jotunheim," Thor says with a grin. "Because they are actually giants."

"Have we ever had giant plants?" Natasha asks idly, twisting her widow's bite on her wrist. "That's where my money's going."

"Ten on Doom," Clint says with confidence. "Because he's a giant asshole."

Bruce puts a bet on dinosaurs, and Bucky thinks long and hard before he wagers on giant bugs. The auto-pilot brings the quinjet in for a smooth, hovering stop, and JARVIS's voice announces, "Your destination, Avengers." The weary chatter dies off as the Avengers prepare for battle, readying weapons and making sure uniforms are on properly and trying to rope runaway thoughts back into some semblance of order again.

Tony stands with a deep, guttural groan of protest, and jams the helmet over his head. "I'm getting too old for this," he grumbles, the mechanical undertones of his speakers doing absolutely nothing to hide the exhaustion.

Bucky looks up from where he's doing a final check of his sniper rifle in time to catch Tony leaning on the side of the quinjet as he waits for the doors to open. There's nothing coming through the bond, but it's never been reliable outside the bedroom. He eyes Tony, assessing his condition. "Gonna be alright to fly?"

Tony's expression isn't actually visible with the faceplate down, but Bucky doesn't need to see it to know that it's Tony's best scandalized, offended look. "Honeybunch, I could sleep in the armor and still make it through battle safely."

"Don't do that," Steve says firmly, adjusting his cowl around his cheeks. "I need you on my six, not snoozing on the job."

Without missing a beat, Tony says, "And my ten goes on Captain America going rogue, because he's such a giant buzzkill."

Before Steve can reply, the quinjet hangar opens, and Tony clomps to the edge of the down door, leans out to take a look around and groans. "JARVIS, pay the man," he grumbles, just as a faint, echoing shout rises from the street below.

 _"ALL SHALL BOW BEFORE THE MIGHT OF DOOM!"_

" _YES!"_ Clint pumps a fist in the air, grinning like a loon. "I called it! We're fighting a giant asshole! Pay up, bitches! I take check, cash, and sexual favors."

The Avengers are loopy and sleep-deprived and exhausted and probably more than a little insane, and the laughter that erupts in the hold of the quinjet holds a hefty edge of hysteria, but no one ever said saving the world required sanity.

 **oOoOoOo**

Bucky hurts all over by the time they're done mopping up the last of the Doombots wandering around Manhattan, which does nothing for his temperament. The quinjet is decidedly more sullen in mood on the way back to the Tower than it was coming out, which was is really saying something. Not one of them is unmarked — even he and Steve, with their accelerated healing, took their share of wounds from exploding and otherwise violent Doombots.

"I vote we take a vacation," Clint says muzzily, wincing as Natasha dabs at the nasty gash on his forehead. His eyes aren't focusing properly, and Bucky feels a pang of guilt that he didn't quite get in front of him in time to shield him from the brunt of the exploding Doombot. "We're not the only superheroes in the world. Get the Fantastic Four to live up to their fucking name for a change and save the world while we lie on a beach somewhere."

"That would be swell," Steve says, eyes already at half-mast. He's listing dangerously to one side, and only has a loose grip on his shield. His eyes slide to Bucky, though his head doesn't move. "How's Tony?"

Bucky shrugs, and unease takes up residence in his stomach. "Still moving," he says shortly. "Doom blasted him through a coupla buildings, but he seemed okay." He tries not to think of how badly damaged Tony's armor was, the bright gold and red charred and scorched, dented and scored. Tries not to think of the burst of pain that exploded through the bond when that wave of energy hit Tony and sent him flying.

It digs at the parts of him still labeled the Asset, tries to wake the slumbering monster, to recall how stiffly Tony'd moved after he dug himself out of the rubble and in halting sign language indicated his communication was damaged, that he'd fly back on his own. Few things can make Tony shut up, and it always puts Bucky on edge when Tony's quiet. For all he tells Tony he talks too much, the endless chatter is soothing, a steady blur of noise that sounds like home.

The cold clarity whispers at the fringes of Bucky's mind, suggesting he take the quinjet to Latveria and settle Doom once and for all, diplomatic immunity be damned. He shoves it back with effort. "He's probably already at the Tower," he says with a nonchalance he really isn't feeling. "Tryinta get himself out of the armor. I'll pry him out when we get back."

Steve grunts something that might have been _good,_ and closes his eyes. "I'm going to mute the alarm when we get back," he says. "We'll debrief tomorrow. Take the night off." Whatever he says next is drowned out by Clint's punch-drunk cheer.

Bucky slumps back against the hull with a relieved huff, though he still feels uneasy. "Gonna let the Four know?" he says, rolling his head to the side, so he can look at Steve.

Steve shrugs with a tiny smile. "I'm sure they'll figure it out when the alarm goes off at the Baxter Building."

 **oOoOoOo**

Bucky is halfway down the ramp, looking forward to a long, hot shower and a solid night of sleep—well, okay. Honestly, a solid night of fucking Tony into the mattress and _then_ sleeping—when a sharp pang hammers his chest for a brief second. He freezes in mid-step, so suddenly Clint runs into his back with an _oof,_ and tilts his head, frowning in confusion. What the hell was—?

Pain more intense than anything he's ever felt before drives him to his knees a second later. Fire screams through his body, like his bones have turned to molten bars, and he thrashes violently, airless and dying, before it's gone, leaving only a phantom ache in his muscles.

"-ky? Bucky! Nat, call Medical now!" Steve's broad hand is flat on his chest, his face turned away to address Natasha. Bucky blinks, realizes he's flat on his back, and struggles to sit up. Steve turns back to him, eyes creased with concern, and shoves him back down. "Just lie still," he says, his tone one he'd use for a wounded animal. "Try not to move until we know what happened."

Bucky slaps Steve's hand off his chest and rolls backwards over his shoulder, coming up in a crouch. "It's not me!" he snarls, and is on his feet, racing for Tony's workshop, before Steve can do much more than open his mouth. Panic hammers at him, raw terror clawing at his throat and eyeballs, reaching like he's never reached before through the soulbond to sense something, _anything,_ from Tony's end.

The bond is silent. He can't even tell if it's still there.

"Tony!" he screams, coming up hard against the sealed door of the workshop. The glass is still opaque, standard procedure when Tony's not in the building, a holdover from his days when no one knew he was Iron Man. Bucky tries the lock—still engaged—and pounds on the door with his fist, denting the metal. " _Tony_! JARVIS, let me in!"

"Security lockouts are in place, Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS says, and he sounds apologetic. "Without direct authorization from sir, I cannot open the door."

"Fine," he snarls, and cocks his arm back. "I'll break it down."

Before he can let his fist fly, a hand gently catches him by the elbow. "Override the lockout, JARVIS," Steve says, letting Bucky pull his arm back with a frustrated twist of his shoulder. "Steve Rogers. Authorization code 34-44-54-64."

"Authorization code accepted," JARVIS replies. Steve is trying to say something to Bucky, but Bucky doesn't care. The door unlocks and he's through it in a heartbeat, racing through the darkened front end to the armor bay at the back.

"Tony!" His voice echoes back at him, bouncing off the concrete, exaggerating the silence. "To—" He stops dead, legs failing for a moment and his voice freezing in his throat when he sees the crumpled, still-armored Tony heaped on the floor beside the armor's display case. Only momentum keeps Bucky moving, and he stumbles hard, landing painfully on his knees beside Tony.

With shaking hands, he reaches out to roll Tony over, shocked with relief at the steady, bright gleam of a functional arc reactor. "C'mon, babe," he whispers, barely aware of Steve coming up behind him, and reaches for Tony's helmet. "Don't do this to me, Tony, c'mon. Open your eyes for me, huh?"

Steve's hand drops, heavy and warm, onto his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Buck," he says.

Bucky pulls the helmet away from Tony's head, careful to keep the damaged section from scraping off layers of his skin. The first sign something is wrong is when long black hair cascades from under the helmet, spilling across Bucky's lap in glossy waves.

Steve makes a startled noise, and his hand tightens painfully on Bucky's shoulder. "What the…"

Bucky finishes pulling the helmet off and lays it aside with numb fingers, and brushes long strands away from Tony's face. His beardless, smooth, ashen-grey feminine face.

 **oOoOoOo**

The steady, high-pitched beeping of the machines is slowly driving him batshit round the twist, but Bucky grits his teeth, keeps his mouth shut, and keeps his ass planted in the chair beside Tony's bed, where he's within arm's length of his soulmate, but isn't in Bruce's way.

For all his protesting that he's not that kind of doctor, there's no one better equipped to handle the Avengers' various medical needs, and Bucky knows that. But his chest is tight, his teeth are clenched, his shoulders are hunched, and he has to resist the urge to snap and growl every time Bruce takes a reading, adjusts the wires and tubes, or so much as looks like he's about to touch Tony.

 _Banner, difficult to kill,_ the Asset whispers, rattling violently in his skull as Bruce listens to Tony's chest with a stethoscope, light from the arc reactor splashing up the silver metal. _Neutralize the Hulk first. Keep him from turning. Sedatives. Airtight room. Odorless gas. The materials are here. Protect Stark first. Remove him from the room, then seal it._

Broad, warm hands settle on his shoulders, pushing down, and Bucky surfaces out of the Asset with a hiss of breath. Steve must've come in at one point, took one look at Bucky and immediately came to plant his hands on Bucky's shoulders. The pressure and warmth of Steve holding him down reminded him of who he was and where he was, because, just for a second, he'd slid straight back into the Asset, and had been eyeing Banner like his next mission.

"M'okay," he mutters, rubbing at his tired eyes. Steve's hands tighten, squeeze, press down again, but they don't lift off him. Probably a smart move, but Bucky resents Steve making it anyway. He bares his teeth in a silent snarl, hears Steve's breath of amusement overhead.

"It's okay to not be okay, Buck," Steve murmurs back, and Bucky snorts.

He's prevented from replying by the return of Bruce, who'd disappeared with a few vials of Tony's blood to the other side of the room. Bruce is walking blind, scrubbing his eyes with both hands, glasses pushed into the mess of his hair, lab coat rumpled and stained. Bucky perks up as he approaches, hope and fear warring in his chest. "What do you know, Banner?" He even makes an attempt to not snarl. It's not a successful attempt, but he tried.

Bruce sighs. "There's good news and there's bad news, Barnes," he says, and Christ, he sounds like he's running on fumes. If it were anyone else but Tony lying on the bed, Bucky'd be more sympathetic, but it _is_ Tony lying on the bed, and Bucky's field of fucks is barren. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Which do you want first?"

"Bad news," Steve says promptly, which Bucky is grateful for. He honestly couldn't pick between them at the moment.

"Okay." Bruce sighs through his nose, turns to eye Tony critically. "The bad news is, I don't know how to fix this." Bucky's halfway out of his chair before the last word exit's Bruce's mouth, and Steve struggles to shove him back into the seat. Bruce turns a gimlet eye to Bucky, hints of green swirling in the whites, and Bucky bares his teeth but plants his ass. "I don't know, exactly, what Doom hit Tony with. His… whatever you want to call it, technology or magic, is beyond my understanding."

Doom is gonna die. Bucky and the Asset are in complete agreement on this fact. He's going to go to Latveria, kill whoever gets in his way, and be happy about it. He surges against Steve's hands, but they're iron weights pinning him down. Probably for the best, but he struggles anyway. "Lemme go!"

"Bucky." Steve's crispest, snappiest, very best Captain America voice is enough to penetrate the murderous fog. "Doom later, Tony first. Bruce, is there anything you can tell us? Even a guess?"

Bruce slowly shakes his head, grimacing. "I don't like guesswork, but I'm flying blind here. My best guess is whatever the energy he hit Tony with is causing dimensional shifts on the cellular level in Tony's body." He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his lab coat and hunches his shoulders. "Effectively, Tony's genetic code has been rewritten by a different Tony Stark's genetic code. It's functionally identical, except for one small detail."

Bucky's not too far gone or too slow to catch on. "I'm guessing the other Tony Stark's a girl."

Bruce's eyes shift to Bucky, and crinkle with sympathy. "Guesswork," he says with a shrug. "But that brings me to the good news. Which I think you could use about now, Barnes." He looks like he wants to clap Bucky on the shoulder, but resists the urge. "Tony's stable. It's not going to keep flickering between different Tony Starks from different dimensions. It's not going to kill him. At least, I don't think it will." With a frustrated scowl, he scrubs his hands through his bird's nest hair. "It might wear off. Some of my readings seem to indicate the… quantum radiation, for lack of a better phrase, is depleting."

 _Radiation_ is never a good word to hear. Bucky takes a few seconds to swallow the instinctive swell of panic, reminding himself that Avengers eat radiation for breakfast. Case in point: Bruce. "When?"

Bruce shrugs, lets his arms fall with a slap back to his sides. "A week? A month? Never? I don't know."

Tony makes a low groan, and no power in the verse can hold Bucky down at that thready, pained whimper. He's off the chair, sliding carefully onto the edge of Tony's bed, taking his soulmate's hands in his own. Behind him, Steve and Bruce are talking, something about getting more information, storming Latveria, sending Natasha to Stephen Strange, but Bucky's not caring about that right now.

Everything feels off, surreal, different. Tony's hands are slimmer, his face not the one Bucky loves staring into, or kissing, or watching at the height of passion. But it's Tony, and that's the only important thing in Bucky's world. Tony's eyes slide open, hazy and confused and a startling blue instead of brown. But Bucky quashes the niggling sense of wrongness and cups Tony's cheek softly.

Eventually the haze lifts somewhat, and Tony's eyes focus on him, asking questions he isn't sure he's mentally or emotionally prepared to answer. He does his very best to send calming, soothing, reassuring things through the soulmark, damns the fact that it's always been unreliable when orgasms aren't involved. "Hey sweetheart," he says, and swallows the lump forming in his throat. "Don't panic, okay, but you're in the med labs. There's… been an accident."

 **oOoOoOo**

So he's a woman.

That's cool. He can deal. He loves women. Not, you know, in the Biblical sense. Not since his long-dormant soulmark hooked him up with the only person he for-sure needs in his life like oxygen, anyway. He's a long-distance appreciator now. A hands-off enthusiast.

"You're starting to scare me, babe. Can you, I dunno. Nod or somethin'? Blink? Insult my taste in fashion? C'mon, babe. Give me somethin'."

He can deal. He's good. He loves women. He loves their boobs, their clothes, how their hips sway in spiky stilettos. They smell nice and they have soft hair and they're interesting and there's absolutely nothing to worry about, because he can deal with waking up and suddenly being a woman.

"Tony? Sweetheart, you need to exhale. C'mon, Stark. Don't do this to me. Breathe out, Tony. Let it go, Tony."

He totally can. He is not going to freak out. He's not going to freak out. He's going to take this calmly, process it, comprehend it, and then he is going to speak in a calm, logical manner, he's going to ask questions, gather information, work on the problem until he finds a solution.

He's not going to freak out. He's not going to freak out.

 _"Tony! Fuck! Steve! Bruce! Jesus Christ, I can't get him to breathe!"_

Okay. He's totally freaking the fuck out.

 **oOoOoOo**

Tony stares at the mirror, trying to reconcile the naked woman he sees there with the fact that the woman is _him._ Those are his breasts, his hair, his blue eyes, his flaring hips, his … his mind skitters away from the word _vagina,_ and he looks away from the mirror, swallowing hard.

He considers himself an enlightened man. Stark Industries enacted non-discrimination policies and hiring practices early in his tenure as CEO, and even before the Supreme Court upheld marriage equality, SI provided all its employees with comprehensive health plans and family benefits, regardless of what those families looked like. He's never had a problem with anyone who didn't quite fit society's expectations. Hell, he spent the majority of his twenties proving he was one of them.

He just can't wrap his head around being in someone else's body.

The other Tony Stark — or is it Toni? Antonia? Tonya? Some other variation of Anthony? A name he's never considered he might have been named? Christ, he's distracting himself — keeps herself in good shape, at least. Honestly, it's the easiest he's breathed in years. Maybe it's because the arc reactor is smaller, maybe because it's higher in his chest. He doesn't have as many scars now, maybe Other Tony took less damage, or was injured under different circumstances?

"Jesus," he breathes, abruptly sinking to the edge of his bed, face in his hands. His brain is a marvel of biological computing, but it's just not parsing his current situation. Everything is wrong. His center of gravity, his balance, his height. It's a wonder he can function at all.

JARVIS chimes softly, his version of clearing his throat. "Sir, I apologize for the interruption, but Agent Romanoff is outside your door."

"I'm busy," he mumbles wheezily into his knees, squeezing his eyes closed tight enough to see spots dance behind his eyelids. "Tell her to come back."

"I'm afraid that won't do any good, sir," JARVIS replies apologetically. "She is already on her way in. My informing you was more or less a courtesy notification."

"Great," he says, and hunches into his legs, wrapping his arms around them. But they're not his legs and they're not his arms. They're someone else's. He knows he's teetering on the brink of hysterical laughter, the kind that makes it difficult to come back from. "Thanks for the security, JARVIS. Much appreciated. I can always rely on you to protect my privacy and personal space."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS replies, pleasant as the day he came online.

"Suppose I should get dressed." He's still naked, and he's pretty sure that, no matter what Penthouse Forum letters told him, women don't enjoy just walking in on other women in the buff. He uncurls with great effort and moves to his closet, throwing open the doors. The panic is surging in the back of his throat, but he keeps his eyes resolutely forward. If he doesn't _notice_ any part of his hijacked body, maybe he won't think about it.

Rows of three-piece suits and faded tees and jeans greet him, and he reaches for his usual nothing-to-do-but-putter-around-the-workshop outfit without thinking. He gets his hand on the hanger holding his favorite Metallica tee before a paralyzing thought strikes him.

Can he actually wear any of his clothes? Is he going to have to go shopping? How the hell is he going to manage high heels? Bras? Underwear? Christ, _makeup_? He never knew the first thing about buying gifts for his girlfriends and female employees. How the hell is he going to manage knowing the first thing about _being_ a woman?

He hears a high-pitched, distressed noise, and barely has time to realize he's the one making it before the world goes away for a little while.

The next thing he knows, he's sitting on his floor with his back against his bed, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and a steaming mug of coffee on the floor beside his knee. Someone is brushing his hair in smooth, rhythmic, soothing strokes, humming under their breath with perfect pitch in a pleasant alto. He blinks a couple of times, slowly turning his head. A denim-clad knee frames him on either side,

The humming stops, but the brushing doesn't even slow. "How are you doing, Tony?" Natasha asks, and rakes her fingers gently through his hair before dragging the brush through again. "You feel up to talking yet? If not, that's fine. When you're ready. No pressure."

"Natasha," he says, and his voice is creaky. "Why are you talking to me like I'm a scared puppy? Why are you brushing my hair? How did I get on the floor?"

The brush and fingers pause for a moment, and then resume. "Welcome back," Natasha says in a more normal tone. "You were in the middle of a panic attack when I came in. After I got you to stop hyperventilating, you went into shock. I needed to bring you out of it, and calm, gentle tones work best for that."

That makes sense, in a weird sort of way, and Tony latches onto her words like a drowning man clinging to debris. Even if the silent, deadly, kill-you-with-her-thighs-or-eyes assassin being this warm and open and compassionate is kinda freaking him out just a little. "How long was I… out?"

"Twenty minutes," Natasha says, and stops brushing. A second later, she gathers Tony's hair back, does something that pulls at it painlessly, and belatedly Tony realizes she tied his hair back in a ponytail. "When I was young, before Madame B came to collect me for the Red Room, my _babushka_ brushed my hair whenever I was upset or afraid. It always calmed me." The bedsprings creak and her leg slides over Tony's shoulder as she stands, and then she's crouching beside him, smirking her usual Widow smirk, but her eyes are soft and understanding. "Seems to work on you too."

To his great horror, Tony finds himself on the verge of tears. Thankfully, the shock of discovering that pulls him back from the edge. "Thanks," he manages. "I suppose I'm not handling this with any grace."

Natasha lifts a shoulder and drops it in an off-handed shrug, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "There's a standard amount of grace you're supposed to handle getting bodyswapped with? News to me, Stark. And I know everything."

Tony sneers half-heartedly at her, then sighs and thumps his head back against the mattress. "Fair point." He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then girds his loins, such as they are. "What do women wear?" he asks, before he loses the nerve.

The question is plaintive, but if Natasha notices, she doesn't flick an eye. "Whatever they want, usually," she replies.

"No, like…" Frustrated, Tony sighs hard and fast through his nose, and gestures with a glare at his still-open closet. "Can I wear my own clothes? Do I need to go shopping? God, am I going to have to learn how to put on makeup? Is ther _mmmph_ –"

Abruptly silenced by Natasha's hand over his mouth, he stares cross-eyed at it for a moment before lifting his gaze to her. "Are you listening, Tony?" she asks, letting his mouth go to cup his face in both hands, eyes intense and goddamn scary.

He nods. Her hands don't shift, just flow along with his head bobbing.

"Here's the great secret about being a woman. Ready?" She's savoring this, dammit. Her shoulders are back, her head is up, chin forward, eyes laughing their irises off. "Women do, say, and wear whatever we want to, because fundamentally? Women are no different than men. The question, Stark, isn't _how do I be a woman_. It's _what kind of woman am I."_

"One that doesn't know a goddamn thing about Jimmy Choos," he says, as if confessing to serial murder.

"Just ask Pepper. That's what I do."

Tony blinks, long and slow. "I thought you knew everything."

Natasha snorts, stands, holds a hand out to him. "When it comes to shoes, Tony, no one knows more than Pepper. It's dangerous to assume otherwise. Come on. Let's get you dressed and down to see your soulmate before he tries to break the door down. Again."

Tony stares at her hand, then up at her, then back at her hand. "You being this nice is freaking me out here, Romanoff."

"I'm perfectly capable of being nice," Natasha says mildly, and wiggles her fingers at him. "Especially when this sausage fest is less one-sided."

Both his eyebrows go way, way up. "Sausage fest?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Sometimes it's lonely being the only female Avenger," she says, and wags her hand at him again. "Get off your ass, Stark. Stop thinking about being a woman, and just take one task at a time. Let's get dressed, hm?"

Finally, he reaches out, grasps her wrist, and lets her haul him to his feet. The blanket slides off his shoulders, and he makes a grab for it, cheeks burning fiercely. When he dares to look up again, Natasha has her eyes politely averted. As he fixes the blanket around his shoulders again, she turns to dig in a small bag he doesn't remember ever seeing before.

"The only thing I'm going to say," she says, pulling out bits of black and red and gold and lace, "is that you should definitely wear a bra. You're a little too gifted to go without for long. Trust me. Between the underboob sweat and the aching shoulders, it's not worth not wearing one."

Tony vividly remembers the last time he wore a bra. It was college, he was seventeen, drunk and dumb. The perfect combination for stupid dares to be issued. He's pretty sure there are still pics floating around somewhere in tabloids. Tony wants to protest, he really does, but he's been a woman for about five hours. Natasha's been one all her life. And for once in _his_ life, he's going to do the smart thing and acknowledge that someone else has expertise he doesn't.

Especially since he never, ever wants to find out what "underboob sweat" is.

"Got anything simple?" he says, and turns to the closet again. He steels himself with a deep, fortifying breath, and reaches for his normal clothing.

"Tony," Natasha says with glee, "you're going to love sports bras."

 **oOoOoOo**

Bucky's never considered himself gifted with an abundance of patience, and the last few weeks have been more trying than usual, so he figures he's due a few edgy days, a few days of hair-trigger temper. He's doing his best to keep his head about him, but if Barton doesn't _shut his fucking mouth,_ Bucky might go over there and close it permanently for him.

"I'm just saying, Tony makes a damn hot chick," the loudmouth is currently saying, leaning bent over a counter and tossing grapes into his mouth. "He's a damn hot dude too, don't get me wrong, but I like 'em a little curvier than he usually runs."

Bruce eyes Clint as he dunks his teabag in his mug of hot water, one eyebrow arched.

"What?" Clint says defensively. "I'm allowed to notice attractive guys. Natasha doesn't have my balls in her purse."

"Yeah," says Bruce, eyebrow still up. "I don't believe that for a second."

Clint scoffs, waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever, big green. Regardless. Yeah, it sucks that Tony got his body shifted around on him, but he could have ended up as anything, right? Lucky for him he got a hot body with the kind of ass just begging to be grabbed." Bucky snarls, low in his throat, and Clint turns abruptly, with wide eyes and upraised hands. "Consensual grabbing. With permission and respect. I swear. I'm totally hands-off unless invited."

"Is it possible to grab someone's ass with permission and respect?" Bruce asks off-handedly, sipping his tea. "And weren't you invited to grab anything of Tony's you wanted awhile back?"

Clint grins, a smug grin Bucky wants to punch out of existence. "Well, that's Tony for you. I think he's made a pass at just about everyone here. His way of being polite. If I was ever tempted, though, it'd be now. Cos that ass."

 _Barton. Skilled. Trained. Quiet when he wants to be. Loud all other times. A peerless marksman. An expert hand-to-hand combatant. No match for the Winter Soldier. Take him now, by surprise. Physical threat level, negligible. Threat to relationship with Stark, extreme. Unaugmented human. Break his neck. No more threat._

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve shoot him an alarmed look, and figures he's gone full on Winter Soldier in expression. But the bulk of his attention is all for Clint who, he knows, is mostly harmless because he has honor, but this is not the week for Bucky to want to listen to logic and reason. This is the week Bucky's spoiling for a fight and looking for teeth to kick in.

"Barton!" Steve barks, and Clint snaps around with wide, surprised eyes. "Can it."

Clint scowls and mutters, "Yes, Cap." And Bucky's shoulders loosen just a little. Clint will never know how very, very close he came to being murdered.

 **oOoOoOo**

Tony… actually doesn't mind the teasing and the flirting. Clint is absolutely shameless, complimenting his ass, his boobs, his hair, inviting him to join he and Natasha that evening, Bucky optional, but Tony knows it's all in good fun. It's actually easier to know no one's making a big deal out of it. It's just another weird thing that happens at Avengers Tower. _Tony's a woman, must be Friday._

It's… not as bad as he thought it would be.

Except for the dark, glowering, somewhat murderous soulmate who bares his teeth in a silent snarl every time Clint hits on him. Bucky's secluded himself in the corner, hunched and scowling at everyone, and Tony can feel faint pulses of jealous rage coming through the soulmark.

It's terrible, and he'll probably pay for it, but Bucky really needs to learn how to relax. So Tony amps up the flirting in subtle ways, touching Bruce and Steve on the arm or shoulder often, grinning and snapping off one-liners with increasingly blatant innuendo with Clint. Thor's game for flirting, hedonist that he is, and pats his knee, inviting Tony to sit. And Tony does, because it's all in good fun, as far as he's concerned. Everyone just trying to make it a ridiculous thing, so he doesn't have to think about how really, truly _fucked up_ it is that his body has been changed.

Except the second Tony's ass hits Thor's muscled thigh, Bucky snarls, furious and vicious, and stands so abruptly he knocks over the armchair. "Enough," he snaps, and moves fast enough that Tony blinks and misses him crossing the space between them. "Enough," he repeats, angry and with more than a little of the Soldier in his eyes, and Tony goes very still. Without further preamble, Bucky scoops Tony up, throws him over his shoulder, and stalks towards the bank of elevators.

"Put me down, Bucky," Tony says, in what he hopes is a reasonable tone, but is probably coming off as irritated. "That was kinda really fuckin' rude."

"As rude as you flaunting your ass at everyone else in front of me?" Bucky slaps his hand on the call button for the elevator, and the doors open immediately. He steps in, slaps the penthouse button and glares at the door as the elevator rises.

Okay, yeah, he might have a point there, but… "I'm sorry," Tony says, contrite. "I just thought…"

"You shoulda just thought of just one thing," Bucky says, low and dangerous, and stalks into the penthouse they share. The second the door closes, Tony's back hits the wall, and Bucky roughly slings his legs around his hips. "You shoulda thought you're mine," Bucky growls, and the sound sends a shiver down Tony's spine. He doesn't get an opportunity to reply before Bucky's mouth is on his, hot, dominating, demanding. It's all he can do to hold on, let alone kiss back, but from the raw, throaty sounds vibrating through his jaw, Tony's enjoying it all the same.

"Bucky," he groans, wide eyed and dazed, carding his fingers through Bucky's hair restlessly, hips jerking forward in minute motions he can't stop. "Aw, Christ, Buck."

"Mine," Bucky snarls again, and his head dips to clamp his mouth around Tony's left breast, tonguing the nipple through Tony's shirt.

Tony jerks and yelps, feeling it like a shock directly to his pleasure centers. He writhes against the wall, until Bucky shifts his weight and pins his wrists with an iron grip. His eyes are wild and feral, face twisted into anger, and Tony shivers, a little with fear, a lot with arousal, because Tony'll never admit it, but he has a bit of a weakness for the shadows in his soulmate. "Barton doesn't touch you," Bucky says, commanding and dark. "Banner doesn't touch you. _Rogers_ doesn't touch you. No one but me."

"All yours," he agrees with breathy gasps, can't stop a sinuous roll of his hips forward, needy, searching. "Ohhh _fuck_ , I'm all yours. I don't fucking want anyone else to touch me. No one but you."

Their soulbond sings open. Bucky's arousal and possessiveness, his anger and jealousy and fear and joy are all rolled into a tangled, confusing, painful ball. It punches Tony like a comet, crashes into Tony like a tidal wave, throbs hot and fast and low in his groin. And _holy shit_ – his nipples harden into tight, touch-starved knots, and wetness slicks between his legs as arousal pulses again.

He arches off the wall with a low moan, one hand scrabbling for purchase on Bucky's skin. "Oh my _god,_ " he gasps, clawing his way out of drowning in a sea of lust. He whimpers, low and whiny, and Bucky shuts him up with his tongue, licking into Tony's mouth with bruising authority. One thigh slides between Tony's, pressing hard into his groin, and Tony sees stars when his head jerks back hard against the wall, a stuttering moan breaking free of his heaving chest.

"Fuck," Bucky says thickly, rough and hoarse, and sucks hard on the side of Tony's neck. "Do you have any fuckin' idea how hot you are right now? God, Tony. I can feel–" He chokes off with a desperate noise, and nearly squashes Tony against the wall, his thigh pressing hard into Tony. "Been too long," he breathes, with a growling undertone. "Need you."

Tony shudders hard at the spike of need that surges through their soulbond, his, Bucky's, he can't tell. But it doesn't matter. He ruts against Bucky's thigh, keening softly at the frissons of jagged pleasure washing up from the friction. Sinks his teeth into Bucky's earlobe and says, throaty and low, "You're wearing too many clothes."

Something deep and primal rumbles out of Bucky's chest, and Tony's abruptly back on his own feet, sagging against the wall when his knees don't want to support him. Bucky takes one step back, eyes dark and boring into Tony's, and hauls his shirt over his head.

Tony's mouth goes dry, like it always does at the casual flex of muscles, the play of light and shadow, the miles of pale skin. His hands flex, ache with the need to touch his soulmate. Instead, he pulls his shirt up, gets it around his elbows and halfway over his head.

He only has a second of warning before Bucky's flush against him again, furnace-hot and dominating. Bucky traps his arms in the fabric of his shirt, over his head and helpless to move, and strips his jeans off with quick yanks, cool metal fingers points of chill sensation against Tony's trembling, heated flesh. The denim puddles at Tony's ankles and he hastily kicks it away.

Bucky's hand ghosts over Tony's ribs, and he sways forward, brought up short by the iron grip on his wrists. "Tony," Bucky says, heavy and resonant, and a fist squeezes inside Tony's groin, wrenching a breathy moan from him, at the _promise_ of that tone. Bucky teases the hem of Tony's shirt over his chin to snug against his nose, freeing his mouth. "I want to fuck you. But you can say no."

Tony's not so far gone that he doesn't understand why Bucky's making a point of it. For a man who spent most of his adult life with no control of his body, his mind or his actions, consent is a non-negotiable condition of their relationship. But it's not something Tony's even willing to entertain for a second. He made the choice months ago, and he belongs to Bucky, body, soul, and heart. Plus, if he doesn't get to come some point soon, he's going to explode. "Kiss me," he says.

Bucky's mouth slants over his, hard but tender, still pinning Tony's hands above his head but the other is a bare, awestruck brush of cool fingertips against his cheek, and there's nothing but devotion wrapped in desire pulsing through their bond. "I'm yours, Barnes," Tony murmurs into his mouth, rolls his hips forward, grinds as best he can into Bucky. Smiles at the stuttering groan he gets in response. "I don't want you to stop."

Still, Bucky hesitates, rests his free hand on Tony's hip, but at least that sexy fucking growl is back when he says, "It'll be rough."

"Good," Tony growls back, then whips taut and tense, head snapping back against the wall, because Bucky moves his hand from Tony's hip to his groin and shoves two fingers inside him with a slick, squelching noise. "Oh, _fuck."_

Bucky sinks teeth into the side of Tony's neck behind his ear, and his breath blows hot across Tony's skin. The soulbond has blown wide open, and Tony can feel everything Bucky can. The wonder, the reverence, how he loves Tony squeezing around him. How he loves Tony's pitchy little breaths, how very badly he wants to fuck Tony through the wall. It's almost too much to take, he wants time to breathe, but Bucky doesn't pause at all, and Tony doesn't stop him.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' wet," Bucky rasps into Tony's ear, and pistons his wrist to fuck his fingers into Tony at a hard, steady pace. "You're so wet for me. I'm gonna fuck you for hours, watch you come as many times as I can make you. Jesus fuckin' God, Tony, you're so fuckin' gorgeous."

With every harsh stroke in, Bucky hits something with those wicked fingers, jolting Tony with jagged heat that surges through his body and pools low and tight, and the absolute filth pouring out of his mouth pulls hard. Tony's a wreck already, every breath guttural and rough, every rock of his hips frenzied and driving him onto Bucky's fingers. He didn't think it would take him long to climax, given how heavy and expectant his pelvis is throbbing. But this… this is skip the preliminaries, straight to the next level, do not pass go, collect a mind-blowing orgasm at the end of the ride.

"Fuck, Tony. That's it," Bucky groans, panting raggedly against Tony's cheek, half-wrecked and thrusting into Tony's hip. The denim of the jeans he's still wearing scrapes against Tony's skin. "That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Fuck yourself down, just like that. Christ fuckin' almighty, you're soakin' the floor. You're so beautiful like this."

There's a stream of words pouring out of Tony, pitchy and yowling, wanton and loud, and if they consist of anything beyond _fuck, Jesus, I'm close, oh god, Bucky_ and _ahh, ahh, ohh_ , Tony'd be very surprised. He's right on the edge of what is promising to be an explosive orgasm, chest heaving, breath wheezing and grunting through his lungs. But he doesn't drop off the other side. He rides the edge, stays on the razor, and he wants to cry, because it's maddening, it's aggravating, he's right _there_ , he's _right there_ , but nothing's tipping him over.

Abruptly, Bucky's hand disappears, and Tony screeches involuntarily at the empty feeling left behind. The shirt is ripped from his head, and his arms hurt from being up for so long, but he doesn't care. Because Bucky's eyes are wild and glittering in his flushed face, pupils blown wide until they're almost drowning his irises. He yanks Tony against him, grabs a double handful of Tony's ass, and in a smooth, hard snap of his hips, slams himself home.

And Tony's _gone_ , shoved over the edge, riding the swelling wave of orgasm, different but familiar, clenching and squeezing and screaming around Bucky. He barely hears Bucky's vicious, violent cursing, because Bucky's fucking him, pinning Tony to the wall with angle and weight, hands in Tony's hair, Tony's knees wrapped around his biceps, tongue thrusting into Tony's mouth like it's the last time they'll ever kiss.

There's nothing left in the world but the wall, and the bruising, slick slap of flesh on flesh, Bucky's filthy mouth and his thick, wicked cock, and the constant bright amd shifting riptide of orgasm after brain-melting orgasm.

He doesn't know how long they've been against the wall, but all he can smell is sex and sweat, and he's boneless, exhausted, doesn't have the energy left to do more than twitch in response to Bucky's desperate, erratic, chasing-climax thrusts. " _James_ ," he says, raspy and hoarse, reaches a hand tingling with aftershocks to touch Bucky's cheek.

Bucky turns lost, dazed eyes to him, and Tony feels a jolt shudder through the still-open bond when their gazes connect. Bucky collapses slowly into him, cradling him as his hips rock through the final thrusts before he's spilling himself with a bass rumble of relief and satisfaction. "I really fuckin' love you, Tony," he says roughly, pressed into the crook of Tony's neck, arms tight and secure around him.

Tony's heart skips a couple of beats, because Bucky's more physical than verbal with his declarations, and each "I love you" is precious and rare. Even though everything's stressed and strained and bruised and sore in pleasant, but still uncomfortable ways, wraps arms and legs around Bucky, cradling him through the aftershocks and holding him in the postcoital glow. "I love you too, James."

 **oOoOoOo**

A week passes, and the sex is _amazing._ Tony can't turn around without seeing Bucky stalking towards him with hot, dark eyes full of wanton sin. He's scooped up at all hours of the day and night, whisked away to whatever the nearest surface is, and fucked to within an inch of his life. He's never going to be able to look at his workbench again without thinking about Bucky pinning him to it and eating him out until he was howling and gushing, then sliding into him and leisurely fucking him to the longest-building orgasm he's pretty sure he'll ever experience.

The sex is amazing, but it's still, pardon the pun, fucking exhausting.

He escapes occasionally, fleeing the tower and his nymphomaniac soulmate to go out for coffee with Natasha, who is tickled with delight to finally have another female on the team, even if it's (hopefully) temporary. It's weird, but kind of awesome, to be able to connect with Natasha like this, and he hopes to Christ he'll be able to maintain and build on the relationship once he's back to his normal body.

He also visits Bruce on a daily basis, to have blood drawn and scans done. Most of the time, Bucky's with him, impassive and polite, but Tony can feel the jealous undertones simmering through their now seemingly perpetually open soulbond. Bruce confirms that the quantum radiation – they have _got_ to find a better term for that, but it'll do for now – is still decreasing in his cells, but still can't make any guesses on how long it might take to wear off.

What he doesn't say, even though Tony hears it regardless, is that there's no guarantee Tony'll revert to his original body once the last of the energy has dissipated. There's no guarantee he'll ever be physically male again.

Tony tries not to think about that, but if the situation continues for much longer, he's going to have to start making contingency plans so he doesn't end up losing the company or his money or, god forbid, the Iron Man armors.

After another morning of marathon sex, Tony escapes to his workshop, because proects at SI are piling up, even though it's only been a week, and he desperately needs to get some work done. He's in a good mood, pleasantly sore and satiated and Bucky's off with Clint on the range, likely to be there for awhile since they're so goddamn competitive with each other. So he feels no guilt whatsoever when he directs JARVIS to lock the workshop down, no interruptions, not unless the world is ending around him.

He's elbows deep in the guts of the new Iron Man model, which hasn't seen anything but basic simulations for testing yet, when he becomes aware of a familiar, prickling sensation creeping along his spine. He stops, head tilted as he tries to puzzle out what it is.

Pressure slams into him, sharp and breath-stealing, but otherwise painless, and a violent shudder shakes his whole body in tremorous waves. When it passes, he feels different, and hope births itself, harsh and fresh, in his chest. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then opens his eyes and looks down at himself.

His breasts are gone, and his jeans, which had been loose on his slimmer hips, are now just as snug as they should be. He cleans his hands, grinning broadly, then hastily unzips, shoves a hand into his pants, and finds himself cupping his cock and balls. "Oh thank _fucking God,_ " he says, and relief floods through him. He gives them a friendly, gentle squeeze. "Welcome back, fellas. You have no idea how good it is to have you hanging around again." His cock gives a half-hearted twitch under his fingers and, reassured that everything's still functional and in its proper place, he pulls his hand out, zipping back up.

"JARVIS, put me through to the range," he says, and turns to start packing away his unused components and tools.

"Communication channel open, sir," JARVIS says promptly.

Tony opens his mouth to give a cheery greeting, overjoyed to share his good news, but snaps it shut almost immediately, because the channel opened in the middle of a conversation.

 _"–smell is pussy and jizz."_ Clint's complaint is punctuated by the twang of his bowstring. _"Seriously, is there a place in the Tower you two haven't defiled yet?"_

 _"Shut it, birdbrain,"_ Bucky replies, but lacks the irritated tone that indicates he's truly angry. _"Can't I just enjoy this without your commentary?"_

 _"Yeah, hi. Have you met me?"_

 _"I wish I hadn't."_

 _"Fuck you, I'm adorable."_

 _"Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday, it'll work out for you."_

Tony shouldn't be eavesdropping like this, but it's clear that JARVIS didn't inform Bucky that Tony was trying to reach him. There must be a reason for it, because JARVIS doesn't forget common courtesy. He frowns, sits down as quietly as he can, and tries not to feel the familiar flutter of anxiety in his chest.

 _"Seriously though. How the hell are you even upright? Man, if I was doing as much fucking as you are, I'd have died three days ago."_

 _"I dunno. Maybe it's just the novelty. Man, it's been a long time since I've been in a woman. Forgot how good it feels. How many times I can watch Tony come. God, it's been fuckin' amazing."_

 _"Seems totally unfair that we got the ability to write our names in the snow, and they get multiple consecutive orgasms. You gonna miss it if Tony changes back to himself?"_

There's a long pause. Tony's heart does a series of stops and starts in his chest, and he's holding his breath waiting for Bucky's answer. _"Yeah, I guess I will, a little. It's not like I expected my soulmate to be a guy, so I spent a lot of time with the ladies, you know? But that–"_

"Cut it," Tony whispers, barely audible, swallowing convulsively, and the comm channel goes dead in the middle of Bucky's next sentence. "Lockout protocols, JARVIS," he says, hollow and horrible. "Lock down everything. Everything. Deactivate Steve's access to the overrides. Black the windows. Block the comm channels. Cut everything."

JARVIS sighs faintly. "Sir…"

" _Do it."_ He's shaking. When did he start shaking? He stares in complete incomprehension at his hand, watching his fingers twitching violently. He's cold, he's freezing, there's ice creeping over his body. He has every intention of getting up, going to his locker, grabbing a long sleeved shirt to haul on, checking the AC. He performs every action in his head, tells himself one task at a time, like Natasha said a week ago.

But all he does is sit and stare blankly at the far wall, with rime and frost spreading through his veins.

 **oOoOoOo**

When JARVIS informs Bucky that Tony's been awake but unresponsive in his workshop for the past four hours, and has locked out all but his own passcodes to the system, Bucky starts running. He's at the workshop door in record time, and is slapped in the face with a feeling of deja vu, banging on the door and yelling for Tony, trying to see through the glass, trying to open a communications channel inside.

His soulmark, so wonderfully warm and open and active for the last week, is cold and silent.

"JARVIS," he says, breathless after his attempt to pry the door off its hinges, "is there _any_ loophole that I can exploit? I mean, I get that you can't disobey Tony, but this ain't normal. I gotta get in."

There's a _long_ pause, and Bucky's been around long enough to have caught onto all the wordless cues JARVIS uses to speak without speaking. He seizes on the chance. "Can Steve open the door?"

"No," JARVIS replies. " _Steve's_ access to the overrides is currently not active."

The odd emphasis on Steve's name is neither subtle nor missed. Bucky sends a silent prayer to whoever decided JARVIS needed a soul, cos there's no way a person with as much compassion, consideration and sheer fucking deviousness as he has isn't in possession of a soul. "Override, James Barnes," he says with confidence, though he really has none that this will work. Shit, _fuck_. What were the numbers? "34, 44, 54, 64."

The clicking of the door as it unlocks is the sweetest goddamn sound in the world. "Override accepted," JARVIS says. "Thank you, sir."

"Yeah, sure." He's through the door before he even finishes speaking, striding in with long, sharp steps and beelines for where Tony's hunched over his workbench, back to the door. "Tony? Tony!"

It isn't until he gets a hand on Tony's shoulder that his soulmate jerks and spins around. Bucky's breath catches in his throat. Brown eyes, short, messy hair. The beard and mustache. Broader shoulders, with differently defined muscles under his palm.

"Hi," Tony says, as though surprised to see him.

"Thank fuckin' Christ," Bucky breathes, and hauls him in roughly, kissing him with sheer relief. "Don't fuckin' do that to me, Tony. I thought you were dead again." He starts running mildly frantic hands over everywhere he can touch. "You all back? You okay? Why didn't you tell me?"

Tony blinks, long and slow. "It didn't seem important," he says, and unease stabs along Bucky's shoulders, because Tony's tone is far too calm and mild.

"It didn't seem important? You gettin' your proper body back isn't important? What the fuck, Tony?"

It hurts something in him to watch Tony's eyes shutter and close down. He thought they were past all this sort of bullshit, back when they were still dancing around each other at the start of their relationship. "As soon as I figure out how to recreate what Doom did, I'm going back to being a woman, permanently."

Bucky blinks, takes a step back, and his hands drop from Tony's shoulders. The unease ramps up into screaming alert klaxons. Yeah, there's definitely something wrong here. "What? Why? You hated almost everything about this past week."

Tony slides his gaze away. "Because I love you."

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out slowly through his mouth. "Okay," he says once he's sure he won't start yelling. "Explain that one to me, because it doesn't make any fuckin' sense."

Tony lifts a shoulder and drops it. "I want you to have what you want," he says. "And if that's a female soulmate, if that's what you were expecting, hey. I'm selfish enough and I love you enough to do that for you."

Bucky's lost. No, he's not lost. He must've been shot in the head by one of Clint's funny-fumes arrows and this is all one very weird hallucination. "What the everliving fuck gave you that dumb idea?"

"I… may have accidentally heard you tell Barton that you weren't expecting a man to be your soulmate," Tony says quietly, and turns away. "So as soon as I figure this out, you won't have to have one."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Bucky says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Why do you focus on that, and not what I fucking said after that?"

"I…" Tony shakes his head, hesitates. "I didn't hear anything after that."

Bucky stares at him, isn't sure whether he wants to kiss the stupid out of him or shake the stupid out of him. "How do you always manage to hear exactly the wrong part of conversations you ain't supposed to hear, and stop listening at exactly the right time to miss the really important bit?"

"... Talent?"

"Tony…" Bucky sighs, counts to five in English, Russian, Spanish, French, German and Esperanto, and sighs again. At least this is familiar, if supposed-to-be-dealt-with territory. "I really don't give a fuck what body you're in, you know that, right?"

Judging by Tony's frown, he doesn't in fact know that.

"For fuck's sake!" Well, so much for self-control.

"It wasn't just that, Bucky!" Finally, there's color and life in Tony's face again. "Jesus, do you know how utterly insatiable you became as soon as I woke up with a vagina? How many times you told me I'm beautiful, I'm gorgeous _like that?_ How often you told me you loved me? Fucking hell, Barnes. I've heard "I love you" from your mouth about five times as often in the last seven days as I've heard in the previous seven months! There was evidence to support it!"

"Because you nearly died, you fucking idiot!" Bucky yells back. "You nearly died, and I woulda fucking regretted how little goddamn time we've been able to spend together lately! I was trying to make it up to us! And you _are_ gorgeous! You're always gorgeous! And _like that_ didn't mean as a woman! I meant the look you get on your face when you're fuckin' coming for me!"

Tony swears, harsh and vicious, and the next thing Bucky knows, he's backed against the nearby wall, and Tony's hauling the zipper of his pants down, kissing him hard and intense, devouring the noises from the back of his throat. "Tell me," he says, demanding and rough, with an answering hard throb from their soulbond.

"MIssed your eyes," Bucky says thickly, and his eyes flutter back when Tony wraps a hand around his cock and starts to stroke. "Missed your beard. Christ, I missed the way you mark me with it. MIssed your... _fuck…._ Missed your hands. MIssed your cock. Missed _you_ inside _me."_

Tony chokes when Bucky works his hand into Tony's pants, and his hips judder with a harsh breath when Bucky closes his fingers around his length. "I'm not gonna last long, honey," he breathes.

And Bucky smiles wickedly. "Good," he says, and drops to his knees, yanking Tony's pants down past his thighs as he does. Tony's cock bobs, hard and long, and Bucky nuzzles it with his cheek, relishing Tony's sharp intake of breath over his head.

"Oh god," he says, strangled, and fists his hands in Bucky's hair. "Oh my fucking god."

"Might be a fuckin' god, but you can just call me Bucky," he says, smart-mouthed, and sucks Tony into his throat in a long swallow.

 **oOoOoOo**

Some time, three rooms, and several orgasms later, lying in a boneless, contented heap in Bucky's arms, Tony props his chin on Bucky's chest. "So if I'd stayed a woman…"

"I'da kept fuckin' you, cos I love you," Bucky says, lazy and sated, watching Tony with happy, slitted eyes.

"If I'd, I dunno, become a Kree or something?"

"I'da kept fuckin' you, cos I love you."

Tony grouses good-naturedly. "You're not easy to pin on the sexual orientation chart, you know."

"Sure I am." Bucky closes his eyes and settles back. "I'm Tonysexual. I'm attracted to Tony, no matter what he looks like. Even if you turned into one'a those weird squid things with the tentacles, I'd fuck you, cos I love you. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Yes, dear. JARVIS, lights."

Bucky's almost, _almost_ made it to sleep when Tony says quietly, "Bucky?"

He sighs faintly. "Yeah?"

"Stop watching hentai with Clint. It's weird and I don't need you getting ideas, you fucking nympho."

Bucky huffs a laugh. "Yes, dear."


End file.
